All Things Left Unsaid
by EmpireX
Summary: In the aftermath of a senseless tragedy, someone unexpected returns. While Veronica struggles to put her shattered life back together, Logan fumbles towards redemption, but will Veronica allow herself to open up to him again?
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: All Things Left Unsaid  
AUTHOR: EmpireX  
DISCLAIMER: Do I own Veronica Mars? Why no, I don't. That honor belongs to Rob Thomas and Warner Brothers. Don't sue, mmkay?  
RATING: M for langage, drug use, and (future) sexual situations.

SUMMARY: _It came in waves: blessed numbness, followed by grief so acute, so physically painful, it felt as though her chest were being crushed. But then the pain would recede and she would feel nothing..._ In the aftermath of a senseless tragedy, someone unexpected returns. While Veronica struggles to put her shattered life back together, Logan fumbles towards redemption, but will Veronica allow herself to open up to him again? A portrait of grief, forgiveness, salvation, and moving forward. An AU/Future fic.

*****

He would never have seen Veronica Mars again if he hadn't done something completely out of character.

On a Tuesday morning in November, Logan Echolls actually read the newspaper that was dropped on his doorstep.

To be honest, he was only scoping out the review for his newest restaurant-slash-club, Meshi Odori. They were glowing, of course. He knew they would be. The cute Food and Wine reporter that The Chronicle sent over was more interested in _him_ than sampling the latest exiting Japanese cuisine from Chef Rocky Mizumoto.

_Was he planning on attending Sundance again this year? _Yes, because attending the premier of his sister's latest indie (a kinder word for B-movie) flick and playing nice in public gave him less of a headache than letting Trina run off at the mouth _unsupervised_ and then reading about it the next week in Entertainment Weekly. Oh, those pesky reporters. They still loved to bring up his murderous father and suicidal mother at every opportunity. And Trina did _so_ love to play the tragic ingénue.

_Was he still dating that Russian supermodel? _Not for long. But Nadia didn't know that yet, so he deftly side-stepped _that_ question and charmingly shoved a piece of sushi between Summer-the-reporter's glossy lips.

In his defense, supermodels_were_ hard to break up with. All the traveling, along with never answering her cell, had led to a month-long game of phone tag. He decided to give her a few more days, then it was _sayonara_. Breaking up with your girlfriend via voicemail may be in bad taste, but so was finding out from a supermarket tabloid that said girlfriend was seen doing blow and canoodling with Colin Farrell in a London club.

His first thought in response to that had been, _Well, fair is fair_. He'd screwed Colin's last girlfriend while she and the actor were on a "break." His second thought had been, _Out with the old, in with the new_, and he wondered if that up-and-coming actress his attorney was trying to hook him up with was still available.

So there he was, in a decidedly cheerful mood, paging through The San Francisco Chronicle, when a byline on A-4 caught his eye.

**Prominent Plastic Surgeon Killed in Domestic Dispute**

Initially, it made him chuckle, just imagining some hapless Botox pusher getting axed for messing up a mobster's wife's implants. Or maybe he was messing _with_ the mobster's wife?

But then the guy's name caught his eye: Dr. Tom Kelley. Why did that name sound so familiar?

Logan squinted at the cropped black and white photo of the man - impeccably styled hair, well dressed, perfect smile. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, scanning the article for clues.

_SAN FRANCISCO, CA. --__San Francisco Police are investigating a domestic dispute that turned deadly on the city's west side. Just before 6:00 pm Tuesday, police responded to a 911 call at a Farmer's Market grocery store parking lot on South Pantano Road. Officers found the bodies of three victims__._

_The bodies were those of 23-year-old Lindsay Shelton, her 25-year-old ex-boyfriend, Darren Spitzer, and 38-year old Thomas Kelley, a well-known plastic surgeon to the stars._

_Detectives were able to use security camera__footage and a 911 call recording to piece together the events leading up to the apparent murder-suicide._

_In a press conference, San Francisco Police Sgt. Fabian Pacheco stated that Spitzer, whom Shelton had recently filed a restraining order against, followed her to the grocery store. As Shelton exited the store, Spitzer followed her to her car and assaulted her. _

_Sgt. Pacheco stated, "It appears preliminarily, that Dr. Kelley witnessed the assault as he exited the store and returned to his own vehicle. Dr. Kelley placed a 911 call from his cell phone, informing the operator that a domestic disturbance was__in progress and that a woman was injured. Security cameras show that Dr. Kelley attempted to come to the aid of Miss Shelton. Upon reviewing the 911 recording, shouts and multiple shots could be heard. It appears that Mr. Spitzer shot Miss Shelton and__Dr. Kelley, and then turned the gun on himself."_

_Homicide detectives will be searching the victims' vehicles and processing the crime scene to establish more details. __Additional information regarding this ongoing investigation will be released as it becomes available. Autopsies on the victims are scheduled for Wednesday._

How tragic. But no clues as to why that name, Tom Kelley, should ring a bell. Logan flipped to the obituaries and continued to read.

_Thomas P. Kelley was born on May 7, 1981. He died November 21, 2020, aged 38. _

_Tom Kelley was an extremely talented and dedicated plastic surgeon of international fame who died tragically at the age of 38._

_Kelley did pioneering work in facial reconstruction and he was recognized as a world leader in the field. Although his expertise included all aspects of aesthetic facial, breast and body contouring surgery, his specialist interest was in facial plastic surgery. _

_Kelley was born in London in 1981 and brought up in Paris. His father, Luc Gaspard, was a__industrialist, and his mother, Diane Kelley, was a member of a well-known Irish family._

_His French father and Irish mother separated when he was 17, and Tom accompanied his mother and two sisters to the United States, later adopting her maiden name, Kelley. He was educated in San Francisco and at Stanford University and then undertook his medical studies at Harvard Medical School, graduating in 2008. He did his surgical training at Oxford and__London, becoming a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons of England in 2012. _

_After training in plastic surgery in Oxford and London, he passed the Plastic Surgery Fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons. He was awarded a two-year travelling scholarship to do research in microsurgery and facial reconstruction at__the Mount Sinai Hospital, New York, as a Fellow and surgical resident in the Division of Plastic Surgery. _

_His thesis won him a doctorate of medicine from the University of Oxford in 2016. _

_Kelley became fascinated with all aspects of facial reconstructive and aesthetic surgery (sometimes incorrectly referred to as cosmetic surgery) and trained in craniofacial surgery (which deals with congenital and acquired facial deformities) at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, and Great Ormond Street Hospital, London.__He then spent three years abroad, one of them on a fellowship in orbito-craniofacial surgery at Hospital Foch, Paris, working with senior American and French surgeons and gaining much experience in aesthetic surgery. _

_He was subsequently appointed as head__of reconstructive surgery at San Francisco General Hospital, where he reconstructed the faces of patients after cancer surgery and with various genetic diseases. _

_Kelley was a full member of the American College of Surgeons, the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons, and an associate member of the European Society of Craniofacial Surgery. He published more than 30 papers in plastic surgery. _

_A first-class surgeon with an excellent bedside manner, Kelley was a very compassionate man, but hard-headed and practical, with a considerable amount of energy and an extraordinary dedication to healing. He was a perfectionist but also a modest man with a great wit and well-developed sense of humor. His sudden death was a shock to those who knew him. _

_Kelley was also active outside his profession. He was an all-round person and a talented musician. A natural sportsman, he enjoyed playing tennis, horseback riding and skiing. _

_His wife, Veronica, and their two children, Madeleine and Christopher, survive him._

And there it was. Could it really be her? What were the odds? Years ago, he'd heard from a friend of a friend that Veronica had gotten engaged right out of college to some surgical intern. In a dark, mean-spirited corner of his heart, he'd snickered with derision at the news. Veronica Mars: feminist, independent, modern woman-of-the-world, was forgoing a career to play trophy wife to a… a plastic surgeon? Oh, the horror. Logan had called Dick Casablancas and the two had laughed about it for hours. Then he'd gotten piss-drunk and stayed that way for a week. He'd thought about calling her. Thought about driving up to Frisco where he'd heard they were living and making a grand gesture to win her back. In the end, he was too drunk and miserable to find his car keys, so he'd stayed in Los Angeles, took a cab to his favorite bar, and picked up a petite blonde.

That's the way it went for a few years: long hours of trying to get his business off the ground, meetings with investors, lawyers, meetings with talent, architects, interior designers, followed by late nights and early mornings spent boozing at the best clubs L.A. had to offer. Occasionally, he would partake of some stronger substances to help smooth the rough edges - ecstasy, coke - and of course there was always the obligatory blonde on his arm _or in his bed_.

At the time, Logan had tried not to over think his predilection for tiny, flaxen-haired beauties. But after a few years of embarrassing mid and post-coitus questions like, _Who_ the _fuck_ is_ Veronica?_, Logan realized that screwing Veronica Mars-clones was an exercise in futility, not to mention self-loathing. He'd lost the love of his life and no matter how many blondes he slept with, it wasn't going to teach her a lesson and it sure as hell wasn't going to bring her back.

Because Veronica wasn't even around to see it.

She'd married the good doctor and flown off to London to live happily ever after.

Well, maybe not _so_ happily, as it turned out. And definitely not _ever after_.

_Is it you? Are you the guy she said 'yes' to? The guy she planned to spend the rest of her life with?_ Logan squinted at the doctor's picture, trying to decipher something, _anything_, from the man's brilliant smile.

"Mmmmmm…" Logan startled at the sound as a feminine voice purred in his ear and two arms wound around his neck.

Oh, _right_. Summer-the-dining-critic from The Chronicle. He'd forgotten she was still there. "Good _morning_," she breathed, rather seductively, into his ear before pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

"Why, _good morning_, Miss Bristow," he grinned. "How did you _sleep_ last night?" He swiveled around on his barstool to face her.

Oh, _god_. She was wearing his _shirt_.

"Best sleep I ever had, Mr. Echolls, thank you."

_And_ giving him that look of vacant infatuation that women often gave him post-sexual intercourse.

_Hmm. Awkward. _What was she expecting him to do now, offer her his class ring? Logan smiled politely and busted out a move he'd perfected: the _affectionate __kiss-off_. He planted a chaste kiss on Summer's lips while simultaneously extricating himself from her embrace. Pivoting, he snatched up his cup of coffee from the kitchen island and rolled up his newspaper. "Do you _always_ look this stunning in the morning? _Bad__girl_, trying to keep me from working," he grinned, backing towards the kitchen door.

"Well, I was hoping- " Summer smiled demurely and sauntered towards him. " -that we could _both_ play hooky today."

He laughed good naturedly and used his heel to kick the kitchen door open. "Sorry, gorgeous. No can do." Logan slipped into the hallway, making his escape. Summer followed, a look of growing frustration marring her pretty features.

"But Logan, last night you said you-"

"Something's come up, sugarplum. You know how it is with grand openings: last minute details left undone can delay _everything_!" He turned and padded in his socks toward his office.

"_Logan_!" Apparently, Summer's voice turned a mite shrill when she was annoyed. He stopped and turned to face her, a perfectly schooled look of innocence on his boyish face. Her hands were fisted angrily on her hips.

"Well, can you _at least_ call me a cab?"

He walked back toward her and affectionately took her hand. "A cab?" Logan wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Absolutely not," he said, kissing her sweetly on the cheek. Summer's frown melted and that doe-eyed look returned.

Logan smiled and spun around on his socked feet and headed toward the office again. "_Carlos_ will take you anywhere you need to go. I'll have him pull the car around." He gestured with the rolled up newspaper in the direction of the front door. Logan threw open the door to his personal office and turned back with a grin that _almost_ looked genuine.

"So… I'll call you."

He gave her a pert little wave - a dismissal, since her services were no longer required - and the heavy oak door closed behind him with a thud of finality.

*****

It came in waves: blessed numbness, followed by grief so acute, so physically painful, it felt as though her chest were being crushed. But then the pain would recede and she would feel_ nothing_. She would hear nothing but the unnatural silence of her house, see nothing but the dust balls under the furniture, feel nothing but the fine blonde threads of her daughter's hair under her fingertips, and smell nothing but the fading scent of her husband's aftershave on his pillow.

Veronica sat and frowned at the clump of hair and dust hiding under the dresser and sighed. She was sure she had swept under there, but there it was. She comforted herself with the thought that at least no one would be coming up there during the reception… unless somebody had to use the bathroom and the other two were occupied…_Oh, god! Did I remember to put toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom?_

"Mom? Mommy?"

She felt a slight tug on her blouse and Madeleine lifted her head from Veronica's tear-dampened shoulder.

Veronica smoothed the fine blonde wisps of her daughter's hair away from her face and smudged away the tear tracks on her cheeks with her thumb.

"Hmm?"

"Why is Grandma sleeping all the time?"

Veronica turned and cast a glance behind her. Maggie lay curled up on Veronica's side of the bed, her back to them, her shoulder rising and falling with the easy cadence of deep sleep. Veronica was taken aback by how small, how_ frail_ her mother-in-law looked.

She turned back to Madeleine and kissed her forehead. "She's sedated, sweetheart."

Maddie blinked, her eyes large and grave. "I don't know what that word means, Mom."

Veronica pulled her tighter and resumed stroking her hair. "Well," she began, "the doctor gave her some pills to help her sleep."

"Why?"

She sighed and kissed the girl's forehead. "Because sometimes it's easier to sleep than be awake," she whispered. "She lost her son, Madeleine. There's nothing more painful in the whole, wide world."

"Even worse than losing your dad?"

Veronica bit her lower lip. "Different," she murmured. "Different."

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Holy Cross Cemetery was everything a cemetery was supposed to be: well manicured with religious statuary scattered in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Indigenous plants and flowers bordered the walkways and the chapel. Everything was neat and tidy. This was where San Francisco's wealthy dead Catholics were interred.

Logan sat in the driver's seat of his charcoal gray Aston Martin V12 Vanquish, staring out over the lawn of the cemetery. It was an appropriately dreary day for a funeral: gray with the constant threat of rain from the looming clouds. He drummed his fingers on the window frame and watched the burial service from afar. The cerulean blue tent that covered the grave site snapped with the occasional gust of wind and drowned out the faint voice of the priest.

He couldn't see her. The deceased's immediate family always sat under the tent and there obviously weren't enough chairs; the standing crowd was about 4 or 5 people deep and they completely obstructed any view he would have had of her. So he waited.

He reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the flask again, taking a swig of the expensive scotch. It still burned, expensive or not, numbed his throat as it slid down, but it took the edge off his nerves and kept him preoccupied while he waited to get a glimpse of her.

Logan didn't need to hear what the priest was saying. Funerals were all the same: Jesus and eternal life and not asking_ why_. Funerals were supposed to be for the living, but none of them had ever done him a damn bit of good; not Lily's, not his mother's, not Cassidy's, and sure as hell not his father's. The others he didn't remember, not a word the various ministers had said. Just images stuck in his head. _The shiny black lacquer and pewter of Lily's casket. The white calla lilies surrounding a silver gelatin portrait of his mother. Dick's drunk, blank face and bloodshot eyes._ But his father's… Logan remembered it in all it's garishly poetic detail. Trina had planned it so carefully: candles and white roses and a big, blown up headshot of Aaron.

_At the burial, he'd stuck around after the minister left, watched the funeral director take away the chairs, waited out the mourners and hangers-on. Finally Trina drove off in a limo with her latest boyfriend and only the grave diggers were left, waiting in the wings to finish the job. Logan had spent two hours getting even more drunk and babbling incoherently at his father's casket, cursing a blue streak and wiping angry tears from his cheeks. Finally one of the grave diggers came over to him. "Sir, I'm sorry, but we really need to get started, if that's okay..." A big guy, real blue-collar, salt of the earth-type. Logan had looked across the green to the rest of the crew leaning against their truck, __arms crossed, probably in irritation._

_He had laughed, sounding a bit unhinged, even to his own ears. "Yeah, dude. Do your thing." The man had waved the others over and Logan stood back watching them work, moving the flower arrangements to the side and lowering the casket down into the hole. You're right were you should be, he had thought. The same place you put Lily. The same place you put my mother. He had stepped closer and peered down into the blackness, toe to toe with the edge. The shiny metal__scrollwork on Aaron's casket had glinted back up at him. Another crazy laugh had bubbled up in him. He had turned to the nearest worker, about to throw the first shovelful of dirt on top of the late, great Aaron Echolls, and held up his hand. "Wait, man. There's something, I gotta do." The guy had politely stepped back and the rest of them withdrew and Logan took another drink from the bottle of vodka in his hand. He had unzipped his pants, took out little Logan and took a piss right on that swanky fifteen thousand dollar bone box. F-U-C-K Y-O-U, __he had spelled out, and had wished there had been a poetic dusting of snow on the coffin so he could see his handiwork. When he was done, he zipped up, sighed, and smiling, turned back to the worker. The guy's mouth was gaping like a fish and Logan had smiled back at him. "Wanna drink?" he had offered, shaking the almost-empty bottle at him. The guy had shaken his head, mouth still gaping and took a step back from Logan. _

_"No?" He offered it up to the others, who declined as well. Logan downed the rest of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned, searching around absent-mindedly for a place to toss the empty bottle. He had shrugged and threw the bottle, cap and all, over his shoulder. It arked and fell, end over end, straight down into his father's grave and Logan had smiled with satisfaction when he heard it shatter on the lid of Aaron's coffin. _

_Logan had pumped his fist in the air. "Woohoo! Nothin' but net!" He had turned back to the workers and gave them a grandiose bow and wave of his hand. "Gentlemen, he's all yours."_

Now the service was over. People were making their way back to their cars. Logan tugged at his collar and took another pull from his flask, watching people pass by his car window in somber tones of black, gray, and navy. He slouched down, glancing in the side view mirror and loosened his tie and _there,_ out of the corner of his eye - _there -_ suddenly, he couldn't breathe - he caught a glimpse of her blonde head. Logan repositioned the side mirror so he could get a better look at her.

Her face was angled down, her pale hair pulled back in a severe style. Her black jacket and knee-length skirt were smartly tailored, but they seemed to hang on her; or maybe it was the way she was carrying herself, curled inward towards herself, like a dried leaf. She was pale - she'd always been pale - but her skin was sapless, dark circles like bruises around her eyes. It looked like she'd gone twelve rounds with the Sandman and lost. To her left, a little tow-headed boy, maybe five years-old at most, clutched her hand and swung it back and forth, blithely immune to whatever Veronica was going through. On her right, Keith Mars walked, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. He looked the same, maybe a little less hair, if that was possible, a few more lines around his eyes. A little girl walked at his side. She looked about seven or eight and her small hand was swallowed in Keith's larger one. Her face was turned down like her mother's, obscured by a tangle of dark blonde waves. Her black patent-leather Mary Janes shuffled on the gravel driveway as they came closer. Logan ducked down further in his seat as the little girl passed by his window. Behind them, another group: an older woman with a sleek, silver bob, and a pretty, 40-ish woman. Logan couldn't place her, but he knew he'd seen her before. The younger woman turned, as if someone had spoken to her, and Logan caught a glimpse of a man walking to her left. Wallace Fennell. So the woman must be Wallace's mom. That's where he knew her from. She used to date Keith, much to Veronica and Wallace's chagrin. Apparently, that was no longer the case. A teenage boy, a younger version of Wallace, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his suit, rounded out the group. Logan watched them as they continued up the driveway and one by one, slipped into a waiting limousine.

Logan finally took a breath and relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. His hands ached from holding on so tight. He flexed them and scrubbed his hands over his face, sighing heavily. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know why he'd spent hours online Googling her and her semi-famous dead husband. Pictures of Veronica and Tom at a benefit, a charity ball, an awards ceremony. Veronica, make-up and hair impeccably done and smiling adoringly at her husband.

The black limo pulled away, followed by several cars. _What to do?_ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and gnawed on his lower lip. God, he wanted to see her. He wanted to see where she lived, the kitchen where she cooked - a laughable thought - the bed she slept in. It was morbid curiosity, he supposed. Creepy and positively stalkerish, not to mention masochistic and maybe even a little sadistic - after all, what would he say to her if she caught him lurking around her house? _"Sorry your husband's dead. I just wanted to let you know I still love you and I probably always will."_ She'd probably have Wallace and her dad throw him out.

Wait. Hold the phone. Was that what was driving his compulsion? Love? Theirs was a story of hate; deception, mistrust, regret.

_"I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou," he'd chanted, moving above her, pushing her towards her climax. He'd pressed his lips to her throat and moved his hips just so... and she'd shattered around him, her heart thudding against his. __Now,_ he'd thought_. Do you believe me now?_

But she hadn't believed him. Something would never let her. Maybe she'd thought, after his horrific childhood, that he was incapable of feeling the real thing; that someone like him - whose father had shown his love by beating him, whose mother had turned a blind eye, whose sister had only cared when it suited her, whose first love had betrayed - couldn't know the difference. _And he__hadn't_ for the longest time. Until Veronica. She'd laid the cool palm of her hand on his cheek and smiled up at him - _smiled_ - after all he'd done to her - and he could have sworn his heart had _stopped_… But in the end, he had became a bore. He'd bored her with his fear - paralyzing and stomach-churning - for her safety. She'd never understood. If Lily, who'd been a force of nature, tough and shrewd, could be snuffed out in a heartbeat, Veronica could easily meet the same fate. Easier, because she went out to meet danger with nothing more than a tazer and righteous indignation to protect her. He'd tried to hold on to her, _too_ tight, and like a slick little gold fish, she's slipped between his fingers. In the end, he'd been a disappointment. And that was the end of it.

So was it love, then? Was that even possible? To love someone for so long, never seeing them... _Omne esse est percipi._ To _be_ is to be _perceived_. George Berkeley. Didn't he learn that in Philosophy 101? It seemed farfetched to believe that unrequited love was driving him; but people went on loving God, didn't they? All their lives _and never seeing Him_.

"What are you doing? WHAT are you DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING???" He asked the question to himself and the only answer he received was… nothing. Veronica's pale face swam in his mind's eye and he didn't need another excuse. He turned the key in the ignition, put the car into drive, and joined the line of cars leaving the cemetery.

*****

Veronica stared at the bouquet of white lilies and frowned. She ran her thumb absentmindedly over the stem of the flower in her hand. The vase was full, the thick green stems pressed tightly against the clear glass.

"Veronica."

She turned the container to look at it from another angle, her small fingers trying to wriggle in between the glass and the stems to find a gap, just_ one small gap_, so she could slip the last flower in and be_ done_ with the_ whole_._ damn._ thing.

"Veronica!"

Veronica blinked and turned to Lisa, who was looking at her expectantly over the kitchen island.

"Sorry. What?"

"Sweetie, I've been saying your name for, like, five minutes."

"Oh…"

Her eyes shifted around the kitchen to where Wallace and Alicia were staring at her, their eyes grave, pitying, limbs frozen like statues in mid-motion.

"I was saying that people are starting to arrive…"

"Oh. Okay." The single lily fluttered helplessly in her hand. "I was just…" She sighed. "It won't _fit_."

Her sister-in-law put down the butcher knife where she was chopping more celery for the veggie platters. Veronica didn't know why she bothered. No one ever ate the celery. "Oh, Vee. Sweetie, don't worry about _that_…"

"I'll take care of it." A gentle hand was laid on her shoulder. Alicia smiled softly down at her, carefully taking the flower from her hand. "Why don't you go check on Maggie, see if she needs anything, hmm?" Her step-mother's hand slipped soothingly down her back and Veronica felt the lump return to her throat. _Please don't look at me like that. Don't treat me like the fragile, grieving widow. Please don't pity me... I can't take it._

_Ding-dong._ An electronic chime rang out. _Ding-dong_, like an old-fashioned doorbell. Everyone froze, then Wallace pulled out his cell phone. "That's not me."

Veronica turned to the office, just off from the kitchen. The chime sounded again from behind the closed door. _Tom's office. Tom's computer._

She moved to the door and gingerly turned the knob. The door swung open easily on well-oiled hinges and Veronica instinctively recoiled a little. Everything was neat and tidy - just the way he'd left it. A half-drunk glass of water rested on the desk, catching the light from the window. It was the only tangible evidence that anyone had been there recently.

The computer chimed again.

Veronica shook her head, taking a step away from the door. "I can't go in there."

No one moved for a moment.

"It's okay. I got it." Wallace slipped past her into the room and sat down in Tom's chair. He swirled the mouse over the mouse pad and the computer screen blinked to life. "It's an instant message. Someone named 'Dokall82?'" He swiveled around to face Veronica.

"Daniel. Tom's friend from Oxford. _Shit!_" She scrubbed her hands over her face and groaned. "I can't believe I forgot to call him!" Veronica closed her eyes in exasperation. "What does he want?"

"He wants to know what Tom thinks of the Lakers' new power-forward."

"Okay. Well? What did he think of him?"

"He thought he was a good rebounder, but his outside jumper needed some work…"

"Okay. Write that."

Wallace's eyebrows shot up. "Wha-?" he broke off. Wallace examined her warily for a moment, and then, sighed in resignation. "All right. I can do that." He turned back to the screen and started to type.

Veronica turned back to the kitchen. Lisa and Alicia were shooting each other significant looks and Veronica felt her spine start to stiffen, a pit of anger forming in her stomach. God, she was sick of those _looks_, like everyone expected her to start sobbing or have a nervous breakdown at any moment. They were all being so _goddamned careful_ with her, she wanted to _scream_. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she brushed past them and went to find her mother-in-law.

*****

The drive from the Menlo Park cemetery to Potrero Hill took longer than expected - an hour. If Logan had known where he was going, he would have made it in thirty. But he was playing "Follow the Leader," and was at the mercy of a white Escalade. Logan merged onto Mariposa Street, following it for a few blocks. The Escalade slowed as it approached Rhode Island Street and hung a right. Two blocks later the Escalade slowed again. Stretching the entire length of the block, the street was lined with cars on both sides. The Escalade continued slowly on, probably looking for a spot large enough to fit in. Logan managed to squeeze the Vanquish into a spot at the end of someone's driveway. Sure, he was half-way blocking it, but he doubted he'd be there long.

While he waited for someone to come along and give him a clue as to which house was Veronica's, he flipped down the visor mirror and straightened his tie, ran his hands through his hair. He sucked in a breath. Logan's nerves were flaring up. His heart was beginning to race and the vein in his temple was starting to throb in time to it. _Inhale. Exhale. Deep, cleansing breaths, Echolls._ Finally, an older couple, early 40s, probably from the white monster Cadillac, approached on the sidewalk across the street. They stopped under some low-hanging trees right in front of a heavy Japanese-inspired redwood gate. The privacy fence, overgrown with ivy, stretched the entire length of the front yard. Logan assumed there was a house back there, _somewhere_ in the foliage, but he couldn't be sure.

He opened the car door and got out, taking care to lock it with the remote. It certainly wasn't the gated community he'd been expecting. Though Veronica's neighborhood was by no means shabby and Logan wouldn't have been surprised if the smaller houses there went for a million _minimum_, five blocks back he'd seen some very artistic tagging - probably gang-related - on the side of a tiny neighborhood grocery store. One couldn't be too careful.

He jogged across the street, feeling a bit like James Bond: stealthy-like, about to infiltrate her little world - and maybe blow it to smithereens. On the other hand, he felt a little like he was walking into a Balboa County Jail cell again - _ah, such fond memories_. He pushed open the gate and slipped inside.

Logan thought he'd stepped into a miniature jungle. Above him, the low hanging branches shaded the front of the house and to his left and right, palm trees grew next to citrus and banana trees. There were succulents potted in terra cotta planters next to the front door and bright tropical flowers bloomed in the few patches of sunlight that streamed through the canopy of leaves. The house itself was wood frame. Dark, burnt orange shingles - California Redwood - sided the house. The windows, doors, and gables were painted a deep green, giving the property a rustic feel. The home in front of him wasn't the largest on the block, nor was it the smallest, but truthfully, he had expected something a lot flashier for a couple of their status. After all, Tom Kelley was the celebrated plastic surgeon who had reconstructed British pop star Shanna Rhys-Lively's nose after it collapsed from chronic cocaine use.

The front door was propped open, an open invitation for guests to go in and out. As he was about to take a step into the smaller entry way, the interior door swung open and two little boys came barreling out. Logan had to throw himself back against the door to keep from being run over. The giggling twin blurs darted past him and ran around the side of the house. Logan chuckled and shook his head. How nice to be that age - completely oblivious to life's arbitrary cruelties.

_Christ, I'm really not drunk enough for this._

He stepped across the threshold.

*****


	3. Chapter 3

_13 years ago…_

Veronica sat in the bathtub and gnawed on her bottom lip. Once she had chewed the dead skin off, her lip had started to bleed, so she stopped that and started kicking her heels against the side of the tub, her knees bouncing in nervous anticipation.

Veronica Mars was wearing jean cutoffs and a yellow tank top and sitting in her bathtub with the shower curtain pulled half-way closed. It was half-closed in an attempt to hold onto her sanity because from where she sat, she could see Mac sitting on the toilet seat, but she couldn't see the pregnancy test sitting on the counter. From where she sat, she couldn't watch it slowly,_ agonizingly slowly_, turn blue or pink or form one line or two. Because she would go absolutely nuts if she had to watch a plastic stick decide her future. Who knew five minutes could last such a long, long time.

"How much longer?"

Mac looked at her watch. "Two minutes. Thirty seconds less than the last time you asked."

Veronica glared at her. "A little empathy, Mac, would not go amiss."

Mac sighed and nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. This is no time for snarkiness." She mustered a half-hearted smile. It was awkward. "Do you want a hug?"

Veronica rolled her eyes and laughed. "Shut up."

Mac glanced over at the pregnancy test, lying deceptively innocuous on the counter. "Oh!" she said, her back straightening. "Veronica… I think something's developing…"

Veronica flinched, her stomach did a somersault. _Here we go._ Mac grabbed the test and the box off the counter and sat down in the tub next to Veronica. "Okay," she breathed. "What are we looking for?"

"Gimme the box." Veronica read the instructions again. "Okay, so basically, two lines, pregnant; one line, not pregnant."

Mac held the test to the light and squinted.

"Well?" Veronica prompted.

Mac frowned and shook the plastic stick, inspected it again.

"Mac!"

"I'm just making sure it's dry!"

"I don't think it works like that..." Veronica grabbed the stick from her hand.

Two blue lines. Clear as day.

"Mazel tov?" Mac said quietly.

Veronica groaned and put her head between her knees. "Oh. God."

They both jumped at a knock on the bathroom door. "Honey?" Keith called. "Did you fall in?"

Veronica tried to steady her voice. "No, Dad!"

"Everything okay?"

"We're fine! Just doing girlie stuff!" Veronica leaped out of the tub and stuffed the pregnancy test into her back pocket. Mack hurriedly crumpled the box in her hand and shoved it into her pants pocket just as Veronica threw open the bathroom door.

Keith Mars took a step back in surprise. In what was, in Mac's opinion, an Oscar-worthy performance, Veronica pasted a perky smile on her face. It was what Veronica dubbed her "Blonde Smile." But would her dad buy it?

Keith glanced around the bathroom with an air of nonchalance - and failed miserably. "Girlie stuff, huh?" He nodded and then looked puzzled. "Mac?" he mused, "Is our humble bathtub a hip, new hang-out? Should I hang a mirror ball? Class the place up a bit?"

Mac laughed nervously and climbed out of the tub. "Uh, yeah, sure. Why not?"

Veronica grabbed her elbow and pulled her out into the hall. "We're going out, Dad."

"Are you going to be back for dinner? I was gonna grill some dogs. Mac, you're welcome to -"

"No," Veronica cut in. "We're meeting friends for pizza and then working on a project. For school. A school project." Keith squinted at her, a sure sign of suspicion.

"It's for a class," she finished lamely.

"Riiiight," her dad said, nodding. Then brushing it off, he shrugged. "Well, there's always leftovers. See ya later, sweetie."

Mac barely had enough time to grab her purse as Veronica tugged her out the front door.

"We need to go pick up more pregnancy tests. That one had to have been defective," Veronica muttered.

Mac sighed. "Wouldn't it be better to just go to your doctor?"

"It was all that shaking you did. You probably broke it…"

Mac hit the remote to unlock her Beetle. "Yeah, I don't think it works like that…"

Veronica slid into the passenger seat. "Just drive, Mackenzie," she ordered.

Mac turned the key in the ignition. "Just don't throw up in my car, Mars," she retorted. Mac hit the gas.

Two hours later, they were back in Mac's dorm room, five positive pregnancy tests strewn on the floor between them. Some had plus signs, some had matching blue lines, and one had turned pink. But they all meant the same thing. Veronica Mars was knocked up.

Veronica leaned her head on Mac's shoulder and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand for the umpteenth time. She sniffled and Mac squeezed her hand in a gesture of reassurance. She felt so stupid, sitting there on the floor of a Hearst dorm room sniffling away over an unplanned pregnancy. Veronica had seen it before; one or two girls since freshman year. She'd walk into a bathroom at school or the bathroom on that very floor and there'd be a girl or two girls, locked in a bathroom stall, or sitting on the edge of the sinks, one sobbing her eyes out, moaning _How could this have happened!?!_, the other trying to comfort her. Veronica had gotten out of there as fast as she could, rolling her eyes and thinking _how stupid those girls were. Wow, had that high school sex ed unit been completely lost on them? Didn't they know better?_

Well, Veronica knew better. She knew exactly what had happened: summer break. Too much tequila and ice cream and a late night/early morning at Dog Beach with Logan Echolls. She'd stolen his ice cream cone and darted away down the beach and of course he'd chased her - _that's what she'd wanted_ - and when he'd caught her she'd screamed and laughed and he'd thrown her down on the sand and lunged for the ice cream. She'd smeared it on his nose and Logan had paid her back by snatching it out of her hand and smearing it on her chin. Veronica had sat up on her elbows and grabbed his face and _laughed_, kissing his nose, her tongue darting out to lap at the ice cream. He'd laughed as the dessert fell from his hand, forgotten. His lips had pressed against her chin and _sucked_ and she giggled and pushed him away half-heartedly. Logan had grabbed her hand, a smattering of vanilla across her knuckles, fingers sticky-sweet, and licked them clean. She'd stopped laughing then.

After that, it was sticky kisses and the warm ocean breeze brushing their skin. The sand had been warm between her toes when he slipped her shorts down her legs and kissed the pale, tender skin at the back of her knee and she had panted against the shell of his ear and wriggled her fingers into his pocket, searching for his wallet and the small, foil packet it was sure to contain. Her fingers had searched and searched and she had come back with nothing and he had groaned in frustration and cursed his lack of foresight. With her lips grazing his ear and his hands in her hair, she had murmured, _I don't care, I don't care_, because she was already on the pill and they were both STD-free and it had only been each other for over a year and she _couldn't stop_, _didn't want him to stop_, _Don't stop..._ and her name was a mantra on his lips and his legs twined with hers and _and…_ And.

Veronica pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and saw stars.

_Congratulations, __Mars! You've become the dreaded cliché!_

Veronica used to be one of _those_ girls.

A long time ago, when she wore pastels and brushed her hair one hundred strokes each night and Prince Charming hadn't been past second base, she had imagined white weddings and blue-eyed babies and a shining diamond on her ring finger. But then the prince dumped her and her best friend got her skull bashed in and her mom's sometimes annoying habit of drinking too much spun out of control and her parents marriage turned brittle and crumbled to ashes. Lianne blew out of their lives and left Veronica with the dry, parched taste of dust in her mouth, but also with the realization that a ring does not mean forever. Family, love - nothing is permanent.

Veronica changed - and not just her hair and clothes. The skin of her heart hardend, creating a nearly inpenetrable layer that few people managed to get through. She had no desire, time, or patience for white silk and chiffon or babies and cribs and cute little onesies. Veronica could barely take care of herself. She could barely _protect_ herself. How could she be expected to protect another human being?

"Are you going to tell Logan?" Mac's voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

Veronica sat up. "He has a right to know," she said. "I don't know what I'm going to do yet, but... he has a right to know." She shuddered and wrapped her arms around her knees. "I don't know how I'm going to tell him, Mac," she whispered.

"You could always text him." Veronica chuckled. "No, really," Mac insisted. "You could. You could text: _Guess what? U r my baby daddy_." Veronica couldn't help cracking up. "Oh my god, Veronica. Could you imagine him getting that text while driving? Or in the middle of Business Communications? He'd fall right out of his desk."

Veronica snickered. "Yeah, I think texting him the good news is out," she said sardonically.

"So then," Mac bit her lip, "it's _good_ news?"

Veronica sobered. "I'm not really the kids-type, you know? I mean, it's not the _worst_ thing that could happen to us…" Veronica started gnawing on her lip again. "Good news, bad news…" She gave Mac a weak half-smile.

"I guess that depends on Logan."

*****


End file.
